**Two men faced each other, bowing slightly. They drew their swords, and their duel began. A woman looked on from under a cherry tree, a tear running down her cheek. They exchanged feint and strike, turning blades aside with sword and hand. One man eventually gained the advantage, and a carefully placed swipe at his opponents knee brought him down to the ground. He held his blade up high, ready to deliver the coup de grace. In an honourable duel, one man should yield now. The stricken combatant looked up at his opponent and turned his blade toward his own chest.**

No! You will not die with honour you do not deserve!

**The victor exclaimed, and he brought a final blow down on his opponents shoulder, tearing into his chest.**

She is mine.

**The woman was paralysed with terror and dread. What has she just witnessed? A drop of blood landed on her sleeve. It could not have been her fallen lover's. She looked up. In the branch above her, the tree bled from where a word was carved into its bark:**